Wounded Heart ✔

Chapter - 4

The next day dawned quietly in California, the horizon painted in muted shades of gold and grey. Amira rose before the city stirred, her movements precise, deliberate, untouched by hesitation. With practiced calm she packed her luggage, each folded garment and sealed case a reminder of the life she had built far away — a fortress of independence, where her name carried weight yet her past remained unspoken.

By sunrise, she was already at the private airstrip. The sleek jet, her own, waited under the fading mist like a silent sentinel. Without flourish, without looking back, Amira stepped inside. The attendants greeted her with quiet respect, and she acknowledged them only with a nod before settling into her seat. The hum of the engines grew steady, promising the seventeen-hour journey across continents that would take her back to India. Back to the place she had left behind. Back to the people she once called family.

But even as the jet lifted off, carrying her into the vast stretch of sky, her mind was not in the present. It drifted — unbidden, unwilling — to the past. Memories she despised for their weight pressed in, the kind that refused to fade no matter how deeply she buried them. Faces, words, that one dark day that had cut her off from everything she had once been.

The sky outside the window stretched endless, yet inside her heart the walls were tight, unrelenting. Each mile closer to India brought with it the ache she tried never to name. And still, she sat straight, her expression unreadable, as though the storm within belonged to someone else entirely.

For Amira, remembering was always painful. But forgetting had proven impossible.

Flashback – 25 Years Ago

The long white corridor of the hospital echoed with the rhythm of footsteps—Arnav Singh Raizada's footsteps—as he paced relentlessly outside the operating theatre. Every time Khushi's muffled screams reached his ears, his heart clenched painfully. His fists kept tightening and loosening at his sides, his breath ragged. The strong, composed businessman was nowhere to be seen—this was a man stripped bare, a husband terrified of losing the woman who was his very breath.

Raj, his father, gently placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Arnav, calm down. Khushi and the baby will be fine. Nothing will happen to them." His voice was firm but kind, carrying the assurance of a father who had seen storms and survived them.

But Arnav shook his head, anguish etched on his face. "Dad... you know how difficult it was for Khushi to deliver Abhishek. It took her four years to recover before we had Aashi. And now—barely a year later—she's pregnant again. What if her body can't..." His voice cracked, his hand raking through his hair in helplessness.

Pooja, his mother, stepped forward, her eyes glistening with unshed tears though she tried to stay strong. She pulled her son into a soft embrace. "Arnav beta, I know you're afraid. We all are. But Khushi is stronger than you think. She fought before, and she will fight again. Have faith."

Arnav clung to her words, but his chest tightened. "Maa... I can't lose her. I won't survive if something happens to Khushi. She's... she's my life." His pacing began again, restless, desperate, every scream from inside like a knife to his heart.

Then a small tug at his trousers broke his trance. Looking down, Arnav met the worried faces of his five-year-old son Abhishek and his four-year-old nephew Laksh. Their innocence shone even amidst the tension, eyes wide with confusion. Behind them, little Aashi slept peacefully in Aarti's (Choti Maa's) lap, unaware of the storm around her.

Arnav dropped to his knees, gathering the two boys into his arms. "What's wrong, my Prince? My Champ?" he asked, forcing a smile through his fear.